cooking inability
by eldoylerado
Summary: in which clara eats the last jammy dodger.


When I was younger, I used to always bake soufflés with Mum. I would get all the ingredients out and help Mum mix them together and then she would put them in the oven. Our soufflés always tasted incredible. "Chocolate heaven," my Dad would say, smiling as he shoveled another forkful into his already full mouth. It was a tradition.

After Mum died, I never really had soufflés that much. It's not that it hurt too much to eat them or anything, but I just never really thought about cooking. It wasn't until a few years that Dad asked me if I'd cook something for his birthday, and I found my Mum's old recipe book. The first page, decorated with chocolate stains, contained the beloved soufflé recipe.

Of course, I tried to make the soufflé for Dad, since he always loved them so much, but every single one I tried turned out as a disaster. I tried again, and again, and again, and again, but to no prevail. I gave the best looking one to Dad, who ate it cheerfully, but failed to hide the sour look on his face upon tasting it. He smiled and said it was great, but I knew how awful it was.

From then on, I hung up the apron, put away the cookbooks and vowed never to cook again.

* * *

I was lounging around in the library, reading a magazine that we'd picked up from 2015 when the Doctor came in fidgeting (which was actually quite normal) and looking quite… angry? (which was definitely _not_ normal).

"Clara," he said shortly; gruffly, pacing back and forth. I threw my hand up to show I was listening but did not look up from my magazine (excuse you, but I was quite interested in keeping up to date with the affairs of Aaron Tveit, who incidentally is quite the icon for teenage girls in 2015), to which he was not amused.

"_Clara_," he repeated, clearly agitated. Rolling my eyes, I looked up to see him in complete disarray. His hair spiked up all over, his usually perfect bow-tie hanging loose around his neck. His eyes looked wild, frantic.

"What's the matter?" I asked, semi-cautiously, my eyes raking over his ridiculously skinny frame.

"What's the matter? _What's the matter?_ Clara Oswald. Did. You. Eat. The. Last. Jammy. Dodger?"

I let out a short, sharp laugh, however it fell short at the look on his face. He look angry. Not a bit mad, not a little bit amused, but proper, full-on angry. I'd never seen him like this. Not even when that weird alien thing tried to kill him. He just looked really, really _angry_.

"Um. Yes, yes I suppose I did. Doesn't the TARDIS just make more?" I spoke kind of erratically. I was proper scared.

"Make new ones? Clara, are you mental? No she does not _make new ones_," the Doctor said, quite loudly actually. However what he said next was a small murmur I could hardly even hear, "she thinks they're unhealthy."

Now I laughed. The TARDIS mothering the Doctor was funnier than me eating the Jammy Dodger. He didn't seem to think so.

"Make me a new one," he said bluntly.

"_What?_" I exclaimed.

"You heard me, Clara Oswald. Make me a Jammy Dodger," he repeated, as if I was suffering from some sort of mental disorder.

He grabbed my arm, pulling me off the couch (not roughly, never roughly), and hauled me towards the door.

"Of you go, Clara. Off to the kitchen to make me a Jammy Dodger," he said, waving his arms in the general direction of the TARDIS kitchen.

"And if I refuse, Doctor? What if I want to sit and read my magazine?"

"You'll be going home, that's what."

* * *

And so I found myself making biscuits in the TARDIS kitchen. There weren't any recipes in the kitchen, so I had to kind of just choose for myself how biscuits were made. I threw some flour here, some sugar there, and I absolutely knew I had powdery ingredients all over my face, but eventually I had some sort of crumble that kind of somehow resembled a biscuit.

Sighing at my cooking inability, I smeared some jam over the biscuit. A noise behind me alerted me to the Doctor's presence.

"You actually, properly made one, didn't you?" His voice was full of boyish wonder. I find it truly amazing how his moods swing so quickly and so violently. "You properly came to the kitchen because I asked you to?"

"Uhh yeah? You threatened to kick me out, do you remember that, or…?"

"I-I was never actually going to make you leave, Clara. I'm sorry, I just… I really like Jammy Dodgers. And you didn't even ask. I mean, next time please ask. I don't really want you to leave. I'd be all alone and I hate being alone and I-"

"Doctor. Shut up," I said forcefully, grabbing his hands in an effort to just get him to _stop rambling. _

And he stopped. He just completely stopped. Moving, talking, was he even breathing? He kind of just stared at me. I stared back. It was as if time had stopped (not literally) and we were just kind of staring at each other. A small smile pulled at his lips, and naturally mine turned up too.

"Um so," he started.

"Shut _up_, you stupid man," I said, leaning in ever so slightly.

I think he got the hint, because he leaned in the rest of the way, his lips lightly pressing mine.

He pulled back immediately, as if he was embarrassed, or worse, ashamed. But he only licked his finger and tapped me on the nose with it.

Immediately I recoiled, and was ready to yell at him for being disgusting, when he smiled, kind of shyly and adorable.

"You had flour on your nose," he said quietly. I smiled and shook my head in exasperation before linking my arms around his neck and pulling his face to mine, capturing his lips immediately. He made a weird sort of moaning grunt noise, before pushing be backwards into the counter, his lips never leaving mine.

When air became a priority, I pulled back and gestured towards the plate of Jammy Dodgers I had half-managed to complete.

"I made you your biscuits, Doctor," I said quietly, as we were barely two inches apart. He broke away abruptly, much to my severe disappointment, and reached for a Jammy Dodger, pushing it into his mouth and chewing away happily.

He was smiling and there was no trace of sourness in his features. I knew he wasn't faking it, he legitimately liked my cooking.

Maybe next time, he'll want to try a soufflé.

* * *

**Soooooo I pretty much love 11/Clara ok.  
I don't know, I haven't proof read it because I'm lazy but here you all go! :)**

**~Ellie**


End file.
